The Fifth Sin
by Imadra Blue
Summary: A teenaged Obi-Wan survives being brutally raped, but there are wounds that bacta cannot heal. Jedi are not allowed to feel anger, but the emotion is inescapable – not just for Obi-Wan, but for Qui-Gon. Gen.


**Warnings:** This story deals with the aftermath of rape, but there are no depictions of the act contained within.  
**Disclaimer:** Star Wars and all its characters are property of Lucasfilm Ltd. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Notes:** Set ten years before TPM. The title assumes the seven deadly sins are listed in order of severity.  
**Beta Reader(s):** The wise Neotoma, the talented Rynne, and the wonderful Luthe.

. . .

Obi-Wan Kenobi had woken in the dark, and he felt as if he were still trapped within it, though he had long escaped his prison. The glare of the lights didn't matter; he could hardly see. Faces and buildings all blurred together for him. He walked as steadily as he could, determined not to stop, though he had no purpose, no goal.

He felt numb, as if someone had switched off every emotion and every nerve in his body. There was no pain of any kind, no shame, no remorse. He didn't really remember how he came to wake up in the dark, but he knew without a doubt that he didn't want to. He was as empty and hollow as space itself, only there were no stars glittering inside of him.

His hands were still bloody from where he'd rubbed them raw while slipping out of the manacles chaining him to a permacrete wall. They didn't ache, but he kept them covered by his outer robes. Blood soaked the brown cloth, and he wondered why his hands didn't hurt. They _should_ hurt.

He'd found his clothes in a pile near the soiled mattress he'd woken up on. They were torn, but he'd had nothing else to wear. Piecing them together as best as he could, he'd dressed and walked out. No one else had been in the room, and whoever had put him there was nowhere to be found. He'd been forgotten in that small, dark room he'd been chained in.

Obi-Wan liked being forgotten; he also liked forgetting. He wanted to keep forgetting. Maybe if he kept walking, the memory of waking in that room would fade to his subconscious, to keep company with the events that had led there.

People reached out to him, asking him if they could help him, but he shied away from them. He couldn't stand their hands near him. Hands could do wicked things; hands could make him feel. Hands could make him remember.

He kept walking.

It was Qui-Gon who made him stop.

Obi-Wan hadn't seen him at first. He hadn't even felt him through the Force, not until Qui-Gon grabbed him by the arm.

The touch made Obi-Wan scream. The sound ripped out of him before he could stop it, a howl like a wounded animal. Shame shook his being. He shouldn't have reacted like that. He should be stronger than that.

Feeling as if he might vomit if Qui-Gon kept touching him, Obi-Wan yanked his arm free. The movement was so violent he fell to the pavement. That was when he finally felt the pain. It exploded through his body, bursting along his hands, his bottom, his back, his stomach, his thighs…

He didn't scream this time. He swallowed the urge and stared up at Qui-Gon, forcing away his trembling. Qui-Gon would be angry – he'd told Obi-Wan not to go the downlevels by himself, but Obi-Wan hadn't listened.

There was no anger in Qui-Gon's face. Instead, there was concern. Obi-Wan didn't deserve that concern. He was a weak, stupid boy, who had known better.

"Obi-Wan, what happened to you?" Qui-Gon asked, leaning down to help Obi-Wan up.

_What happened to you?_

Images and feelings from the past twenty-four hours flashed through Obi-Wan's mind, like a holofilm on high-speed. There was a girl handing him a drink, begging him to help her escape her pimps. The pink hue of his drink, sickly sweet on his tongue. The inside of a club blurring as he fell onto his seat, paralyzed. Men's faces, grinning nastily. Strong hands clasping him, dragging him into a back room, ripping his clothes off. A heavy arm on his neck, a sharp pain as something thrust into his rectum, a grunt of another man's pleasure. Humiliation heating his face, the taste of salt and other things he didn't want to think about on his tongue. The inability to move, forced to remain awake as the men took turns with him, like he was some downlevel whore. Their sharp laughter as they bruised him, cut him, fucked him. A shame that outweighed out his pain. The clink of metal chains and the smell of filth on a mattress as he passed out when they finally left him alone.

Obi-Wan jerked away, scooting back along the pavement. Fresh pain exploded along his backside. He stared at a point past Qui-Gon's shoulder, at the glittering sign of a nightclub. It took all he had not to vomit on the street.

"I want to go home, Master. I need to shower," he managed to croak out. His throat was raw. He wondered how that had happened.

Qui-Gon drew back. Did he already know? Could he see it? Was it that obvious? Obi-Wan felt sick to his stomach with shame. He should have been stronger. He was better than this.

"I'll take you home," Qui-Gon promised. He leaned forward and before Obi-Wan could pull away, he felt a prick on the side of his neck. Qui-Gon came away holding a hypospray.

Obi-Wan had never been more grateful to fall unconscious.

. . .

"Who did this to him?" Qui-Gon asked, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

The healer shook her head sadly, glancing through the observation window at Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon's apprentice sat quietly on the examination table, staring blankly at a wall. He had not moved for the past ten minutes. Qui-Gon wondered what dark memories played behind Obi-Wan's eyes.

"We don't know, Master Jinn," said the healer, the dark veins on her flat, white face throbbing a little. "The… sexual fluids left behind do not match any genetic records we have on file. The drugs they used to incapacitate him were generic enough that I can't trace them. I questioned him thoroughly, but he won't tell me where he went. He is ashamed."

"I'll ask him."

"I don't think that's wise. He has been through a very traumatic experience. I do not think we should be pushing him for details."

Qui-Gon turned away. Anger burned inside him like a coal fire. Someone had taken his apprentice – the closest thing he had to a son – and abused him in the most demeaning way. And they were getting away with it.

No one should get away with making Obi-Wan's bright eyes look so dull.

Without another word, Qui-Gon turned away from the healer and entered Obi-Wan's room. The youth flinched as the door opened, but made no other reaction. Qui-Gon stood by the door and watched Obi-Wan for a long time.

The bruises on his face had almost faded, and the white shift he wore covered whatever marks the bacta had failed to heal. He looked particularly pale.

Qui-Gon's gaze fell on Obi-Wan's long, thin braid, lying dark against the white cloth covering his body. It was a symbol of his progress as a Padawan, growing with him as he learned the ways of the Jedi. Small bands and loops of hair that didn't quite match Obi-Wan's hair color were entwined in the braid. Qui-Gon stepped forward and delicately it between his thumb and forefinger.

Obi-Wan went perfectly still, his eyes growing wide as Qui-Gon moved closer. He did not look up, and though it was obvious he was trying to hide his reaction, his fear was palpable. It leaked from the edges of his self-control, staining the Force around him.

"This is some of my hair," Qui-Gon said after a long moment, tapping his index finger against familiar strands of hair twisted with Obi-Wan's.

Obi-Wan swallowed. "I can take it out," he said in a hoarse voice.

Qui-Gon dropped the braid. Obi-Wan was a not a meek boy, and he was not one to try to please Qui-Gon. He had his own ideas of what was proper, and often argued with Qui-Gon on that merit. This premature acquiescence disturbed Qui-Gon more than Obi-Wan's bloody wounds had.

"I did not say I wanted it taken out. I had my own special way of braiding my hair as a Padawan, too. I am both honored and flattered that you add my hair to your own."

Obi-Wan blinked, his gaze fixed on his knobby knees, which were peeking out from the edges of his shift. He said nothing.

"I'll take you back to your quarters. You are excused from your duties and your training for the rest of the week. I want you to rest and recuperate – and perhaps meditate, if you feel up to it."

Obi-Wan snapped his face upwards, two spots of color appearing on his cheeks. "Master, I don't need rest. I can still do all my duties. We had lightsaber training tonight – I don't want to miss that."

"No, Obi-Wan. You… you need rest."

"I'm not weak. I won't break." Obi-Wan's eyes darkened with anger. "I don't need to be excused."

Qui-Gon took a step back. "Your opinion on this matter is biased. There will be no argument. You will dress and return to our quarters with me."

When it became apparent that Obi-Wan would not change in front of him, Qui-Gon turned on his heel and walked out of the medical center, his heart aching.

. . .

Whatever anger Obi-Wan had, he hid from Qui-Gon. It appeared only in his eyes, lurking in the stormy irises when he stared out of the window during the day. He was clearly trying to act as normal as possible and spent every morning trying to convince Qui-Gon to return to their normal routine. Fearful that the rigorous demands of Jedi life would crumple Obi-Wan's attempts to heal, Qui-Gon refused. It was only with great reluctance that he even allowed Obi-Wan to return to his classes after a week had passed.

Obi-Wan did not speak of what had happened to him, and, at first, Qui-Gon did not ask. Though he hid it well, Qui-Gon could sense the boy's pain. It coursed through the air in their apartment, creating a thick tension between Obi-Wan and anyone he came into contact with.

A simple touch, fingers against the naked flesh of an arm, was nearly enough to break Obi-Wan. He shuddered when Qui-Gon came near, revulsion visible on his face. He stared at Qui-Gon's hands a lot, blinking his eyes furiously. No tears came, nor did any sound. Obi-Wan had placed a bandage of durasteel across his emotional wounds.

During the kata sessions Obi-Wan created for himself, and the meditations he retreated to, Qui-Gon could sense the pain and anger and hurt drain away. Though Qui-Gon refused to train him for the moment, Obi-Wan trained himself, but at the price of interacting with other beings. He withdrew from the Living Force around him, focusing only on the Unifying Force, seeking peace and serenity. He became cold at times when Qui-Gon spoke to him and short with the other Padawans – even his close friends. The gentle, gregarious boy Qui-Gon had raised seemed lost.

The pain and anger Obi-Wan sought to be rid of seemed to enter Qui-Gon's heart. The injustice of it all ate at him. It wasn't right that scum had laid their hands on his apprentice, damaged him, _hurt_ him. He was just a boy, barely even fifteen years old. They'd left scars that bacta couldn't touch.

Qui-Gon wasn't entirely surprised when he was called to Master Yoda's room one day. The door slid open without him even having to push the call button. The shutters were half-closed, leaving stripes of light across the bare floor.

Master Yoda was sitting on one of his round pod chairs, staring in concern at Obi-Wan. The youth sat in the corner, looking sullen. He stared through the shutters at the busy Coruscant traffic in the distance, his arms wrapped around his legs, which were pulled so tightly to him that his chin rested on his knees. Qui-Gon glanced at Yoda in question.

"In a fight today, young Obi-Wan was. The nose of another Padawan he broke. Too close, he says the boy got." Yoda shook his head. "Learn to control his anger, Obi-Wan must."

"I said I was sorry," Obi-Wan snapped. Qui-Gon stared at him. He had never heard Obi-Wan snap at anyone, much less someone he revered as much as Yoda.

"Sorry?" Yoda's ears rose at the impertinence. "No excuse, to be sorry is. Terrible is what happened, but excuse it is not."

The chastisement, gentle as it was, burned Qui-Gon. "Then pray tell, what is, Master Yoda? Perhaps you should be counseling the other Padawan about getting too close to someone who has been through –"

"I don't need excuses!" Obi-Wan jumped to his feet, fists clenched and bright eyes dark. "It was my fault. I was angry. I hit him. Punish me!"

Obi-Wan's behavior seemed to have distracted Master Yoda enough that he did not redress Qui-Gon for his own impertinence. Yoda stared at Obi-Wan sadly, then looked down at his clawed feet.

"To his quarters, you should take your apprentice, Master Qui-Gon. Rest, he needs."

Obi-Wan swung to face him. "Aren't you going to punish me?"

No one answered him.

Looking more angry than ever, Obi-Wan slammed his fist into the wall so hard he left a small dent. He stalked out of the room, his pain making the Force throb around him. Qui-Gon watched him go before turning to Yoda.

The ancient Jedi Master would not meet his eyes, so Qui-Gon left, feeling even more frustrated on his Padawan's behalf.

. . .

The next day, Qui-Gon came back early from a meeting with Yoda to find Obi-Wan on the training mat in their quarters, moving fluidly through a second stage Ataru kata. His arms swung quickly, the power obvious as he mimicked lightsaber strokes. Every placement of his foot was perfect, the speed and strength of the Force aiding him.

Obi-Wan must have sensed Qui-Gon's presence, for he froze mid-step, even though his back was to Qui-Gon. He faced the wide window, the light of the Coruscant sun making his form seem dark. As he turned, he seemed to brighten.

"Master," he said, bowing from the waist.

Qui-Gon pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and tilted his head. "How are you today, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan looked away, swallowing. "I wish you wouldn't ask me that so frequently, Master. I'm fine."

Qui-Gon studied Obi-Wan for a long time before speaking. "I want to know where you were. Who hurt you." Pain flashed across Obi-Wan's face, but Qui-Gon pressed on. "You know."

"I only had brief glimpses of their faces," Obi-Wan answered after a long time, working his jaw.

"You need to tell me –"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Obi-Wan burst out, swiping his arm angrily through the air. "It was my fault! I shouldn't have accepted the drink! I should have fought them off!"

Qui-Gon was so taken aback by the sudden burst of anger from Obi-Wan that he stood there and stared at him. Sympathy and rage raged within him. Those monsters had done more than physically harmed Obi-Wan – they had damaged his spirit.

Obi-Wan straightened up, his face flushed. He licked his lips and straightened his tunic. "I am sorry, Master. I shall meditate on letting my anger go," he said, and walked towards his room.

Qui-Gon let him go, though he longed to take his apprentice in his arms and tell him that it was all right to be angry. He wanted to tell him that he could be a normal young man for once, that he could feel what anyone should feel after such an ordeal.

But he couldn't, for Jedi weren't allowed to let their anger free.

. . .

A strangled noise, not unlike that of a hunting predator, escaped Qui-Gon's throat as he whirled towards Mace Windu, his green blade flashing as if to visually punctuate how he felt inside. The Force did not flow inside him – it spewed and frothed, bringing not peace and serenity, but rage and anger.

Mace met him with his purple blade, his dark eyes burning with the intensity of Vaapad. He spun and blocked each of Qui-Gon's attacks, the flurry and parry of their blades so fast that the air burned white in places. Mace was as silent as an assassin, as quick as the beast his style was named for. Normally, he was a match for Qui-Gon, if not his superior in fighting.

But not that day.

The Force burst forth like a volcano, and Qui-Gon beat Mace back with blows from all sides, then stepped into mid-air and swung out in a tight, fierce swipe of his lightsaber. Mace fell back with a barely audible cry, his lightsaber torn from his hand. It clattered to the floor of the training salle, unlit.

Mace looked up at Qui-Gon, his look so serious that it washed away the fire in Qui-Gon's heart – at least for the moment. Qui-Gon lowered his lightsaber and thumbed the switch. The green light slid back inside the hilt with smooth sound. His shoulders sagged from the effort, and he held out a hand to help his old friend up.

With a grunt of effort, Mace took Qui-Gon's hand and came to his feet. He summoned his lightsaber to his hand through the Force, then studied Qui-Gon with the intensity that was so feared by all the Padawans in the Temple. Qui-Gon met the look, trying to quell his emotions so Mace's piercing gaze could not see them.

"You are on edge." Mace looked away, shaking his head. "You were tapping into your anger today, as I do when I use Vaapad."

Qui-Gon licked his lips. "These past three weeks have been hard."

Mace nodded, then clapped him on the shoulder. His dark face was full of concern and sympathy – these were not emotions he easily showed, and on any other day, Qui-Gon would have been honored to witness them. Right then, they only made his frustration eat at him more hungrily than before.

"How is Obi-Wan?" Mace asked, his tone soft.

"He says he is fine. He won't talk to me, he won't tell me who hurt him, and he won't let himself rest."

"Who would want to talk about something so humiliating, Qui-Gon? Let him heal on his own, but don't push him."

"I need to know who hurt him."

Mace let his hand drop to his side. He searched Qui-Gon's face before speaking. "We would like to bring these men to justice, but Jedi do not and cannot take revenge. You understand that, don't you?"

Qui-Gon lowered his gaze, trying not to think about how satisfying it would be to run his lightsaber through Obi-Wan's rapists. "Of course. It is only justice I wish to deliver, Mace."

Mace nodded sharply. "We'll keep looking, and let you know if there are any more developments. In the meantime, old friend, take a rest as well. Being constantly in the presence of someone who has been violated must be almost as trying on you as it is Obi-Wan."

Qui-Gon watched Mace walk out of the salle. He clenched his fists as soon as Mace was out of view, wondering where the line was drawn between justice and revenge.

It had begun to blur for him.

. . .

"Master, are you all right?"

Qui-Gon stirred in his chair, tearing his gaze away from the shuttered window and fixing it on Obi-Wan. The youth looked thinner than ever, and he was pale. He had dark circles under his eyes; Qui-Gon wondered how much, if any, Obi-Wan had slept lately.

"You're not supposed to worry about me, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, forcing a weak smile on his face.

"You've been acting differently."

"So have you."

Obi-Wan looked away, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. "I'm fine, Master."

"You keep saying that, and each time you do, I believe you less." Qui-Gon leaned forward, studying Obi-Wan's profile. He was a handsome boy, with solid good looks and beautiful eyes. Pretty young men like that were bound to attract attention from the wrong sort of people in the wrong sort of place. "You must tell me who did this, Obi-Wan."

"I just want to forget it happened. Why can't you just let me forget?"

"Not yet. Not until I know." Qui-Gon seized Obi-Wan's head, trapping his face between his great hands. Obi-Wan shuddered at the touch, trying to pull away, but Qui-Gon was both bigger and stronger. He pulled Obi-Wan closer, feeling a lurch in his gut. "Tell me."

Obi-Wan grabbed Qui-Gon's wrists and squeezed with all his might. Sharp pain shot through Qui-Gon's arms, but he ignored it. "Let go! Let me go!" Obi-Wan cried.

A bolt of lightning seemed to strike, and a false electricity coursed through Qui-Gon's body, starting from where the bare skin of his palms made contact with Obi-Wan's cheeks and traveling straight to his head. Images flashed through his mind, one by one.

Darkness like Qui-Gon had never experienced before swallowed him. Glimpses of the faces of four men came to Qui-Gon's mind's eye, leering. There was a pretty blond girl, close to Obi-Wan's age, handing him a drink. A glowing sign for a seedy downlevel club, The Lowman, stood out like a beacon. After a moment, these images faded, leaving behind that of a dark room and a soiled mattress. On the mattress lay a naked boy, beaten, but not broken as he worked his bloody wrists free from his manacles.

Qui-Gon let Obi-Wan go and stood up, fury running through his veins like a poison. He felt cold, though the desire to make those monsters who had raped his apprentice suffer burned within him more fiercely than ever.

"No, Master, don't!" Obi-Wan cried, as if he could see into Qui-Gon's mind. And after that strange connection they'd just experienced, perhaps he could. "Please, stay here." He grabbed Qui-Gon by the wrists, pleading with his wide, painfully bright eyes. "Please."

"Why did you go there, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon managed to choke out. "That place – I warned you about that place."

"There was a girl in there." Obi-Wan bit his lip, splotches of pink appearing across his pale face. "I… she asked me to help her. But… she tricked me, gave me a drink full of drugs. She worked for them. Those men, they were just… they hated Jedi. Please, Master, just let Master Windu or –"

"I will handle the situation myself."

Qui-Gon tore his wrists free from Obi-Wan's grasp and walked away. He found his utility belt and his lightsaber in the drawer he always left them in, then took his outer robe off the wall hook and slid it on. Obi-Wan said nothing as Qui-Gon did this, merely standing where Qui-Gon had left, his arms still outstretched. He trembled and looked near tears.

As Qui-Gon walked out of their quarters, he knew that Obi-Wan was not afraid of what had happened. Obi-Wan was afraid of what _would_ happen.

. . .

Qui-Gon did not return for several hours.

When the door to their quarters finally slid open, Obi-Wan leapt to his feet. In the dim lights hanging overhead, he could only barely make out Qui-Gon as he walked in. Qui-Gon said nothing. He merely walked to the laundry chute and took off his dark brown robe. He shoved it through the chute's door and headed towards the 'fresher.

Heart in his throat, Obi-Wan followed him. The automatic lights came on as Qui-Gon walked in, burning so bright that both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon winced.

As his eyes adjusted, Obi-Wan saw that Qui-Gon looked pale under the stark white light – an unusual pallor for him. He stood in front of the counter, his back to Obi-Wan. In the mirror, Obi-Wan could see that dirt stained Qui-Gon's cheek, and his hair was dark with sweat.

A vibroblade clattered to the countertop. Blood splattered as it landed, crimson stains so visible against the white duramica.

"Master?" asked Obi-Wan, feeling his stomach sink.

"Have you eaten, or were you sitting in that chair the whole time I've been gone?" Qui-Gon asked, his voice as stern and strong as ever. The faucet turned on with a rush of water, and he began to wash his hands.

Obi-Wan moved further into the small 'fresher. "I… was waiting for you…" The water in the sink had turned red. Obi-Wan was dizzy with nausea. "Oh, Master, what have you done?"

"It wasn't revenge," said Qui-Gon, looking at Obi-Wan in the large mirror. What Obi-Wan had thought was dirt, now appeared like blood as he studied him. It was smeared across his face, and there was something dark in his eyes, making him seem even more leonine than usual. "It was justice."

Obi-Wan sunk to his knees, realizing what Qui-Gon had just done. Had done for _him_. He knew he should have gone to find Master Windu the moment Qui-Gon had left, but he hadn't been able to. He hadn't wanted Qui-Gon to be expelled. And as much as he wished the feelings weren't there, a part of him had wanted those men to suffer for their crimes.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you again, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, still watching him in the mirror.

Obi-Wan hung his head in both shame and relief. "Thank you, Master." He meant that, no matter how much he didn't want to.

Qui-Gon had broken the Jedi Code for him. He could call it justice if he wanted, but Obi-Wan knew the truth. A Jedi had the right to arrest any criminal, and even kill them if they had no other choice, but he knew Qui-Gon had crossed the lines of legality and blurred the Code. He had not gone to find them for arrest. It was his intent, not his actions, that were suspect.

Water dripped onto the floor, and Obi-Wan realized Qui-Gon had turned around. His wet hands hung limply at his sides, washed clean of his sins.

"I didn't want you to do that, Master."

"I know."

Obi-Wan glanced up into Qui-Gon's face. Qui-Gon's expression was as dead as surely as his victims'. "You _shouldn't_ have done it," he whispered. "It was wrong."

"I know."

"Th-then why…?"

Qui-Gon studied Obi-Wan for a long time before answering. "Because I'm not as strong as you, my young Padawan."

"I'm not strong, Master. I wasn't able to fight them off. And I'm still… angry." Obi-Wan buried his face in his hands. He felt so much, that he felt nothing all of a sudden.

"You are strong." Qui-Gon smiled. "You survived what they did to you. And you will continue to do so. Because you will learn from my mistakes." He walked out, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the 'fresher.

Obi-Wan looked up after some time, his gaze falling on the bloody vibroblade Qui-Gon had left behind. Trembling despite himself, he came to his feet and took it in his hand. It felt smooth and cold against his palm, like the dark side itself. The blood on its blade had congealed, dark now.

Without looking at himself in the mirror, Obi-Wan took his Padawan's braid and sheared two inches off it with the vibroblade. He had forgotten what he'd learned, as had Qui-Gon, and he would make sure it showed. When he was done, he threw the blade into the disposal unit and bound the end of his braid. Only then did he look up at himself.

In the mirror, Obi-Wan swore he could still see the wounds the bacta had supposedly healed on his face. He'd seen them every day since he'd been attacked, but now they no longer looked raw and infected. They'd finally healed over. There would be scars left behind, but Obi-Wan could live with that.

He only hoped Qui-Gon could, too.

_End._


End file.
